Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-nine

Thank heaven for a chimney that, even in a strong wind, was drawing smoke sweetly up the flue.

On this gusty Sunday evening, their music was the sound of Sammy’s and Kenny’s laughter, punctuated by the sharp crack of cue tip against resin.

They turned their chairs to face the fire, rested their sock feet on the fender.

‘She’ll approve whatever we decide,’ said Cynthia.

‘There’s Vanita, of course.’ He was quite fond of Vanita, aka the Little Owl, as he sometimes called her privately. ‘But . . .’

‘But,’ said his wife.

Here was real news, and they couldn’t mess up. For the first time in history, the Muse might actually be a feed to the mighty Observer.

‘I’ll have to make a few calls,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to the right people, out of courtesy, but we can’t let Wesley scoop us on this. The story absolutely belongs to Mitford. Would you write it?’ Here was someone who made her living not only with pictures, but with words. Perfect.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Just . . . no?’

‘Yes. No.’

So. He could spill the beans to J.C., but the editor’s literary skills were on par with Vanita’s, minus the ardor for all-caps.

‘Would you gather the facts and write them down? It would eliminate the nuisance of an interview by the Muse and perhaps help deliver the truth in recognizable form.’

‘Consider it done,’ she said, smug as anything when thinking of the information she’d been given by phone a half hour ago.

Hessie. It would have to be Hessie. She would do an earnest and workmanlike job. On the other hand, Vanita would be devastated if passed over.

Before getting in a swivet, they prayed the prayer that never fails.

•   •   •

ACROSS THE DATES of December 24 through 31, he had scrawled: Dooley Home. Across December 24 through 28: Lace Home.

Dooley and Lace would be staying at Meadowgate with Marge and Hal Owen, Dooley subbing for Hal’s assistant, who was away for the holidays.

On Christmas Eve, he and Cynthia would finish decorating their tree and attend midnight mass in Wesley, and, on Christmas Day, drive out to Meadowgate with Dooley’s siblings. Hoppy and Olivia would join them, making a baker’s dozen around the farm table. It would be like going home, given the year he and Cynthia lived at the farm during the Owenses’ stint in France.

Harley, so often included as family, would have Christmas dinner with his landlady, who was roasting a goose.

‘First he buys dentures,’ he said. ‘Then there’s the cologne business. And now roast goose. Do you think . . . ?’

‘Wouldn’t that be grand?’ said his wife.

‘I can’t imagine it. She’s an educated woman.’

‘He’s an educated man, remember? He majored in American history under Lace Harper, who also taught him to conjugate a verb.’

He shook his head. ‘No way.’ Harley at one of Miss Pringle’s piano recitals at Mitford School? ‘Just no way.’

‘I have never conjugated a verb,’ she said, gazing into the middle distance, ‘and never will.’

•   •   •

ON THE WAY HOME from a frigid run on Monday, he stopped by Sweet Stuff.

He was eyeing the jelly donuts when she came through the curtains that divided customers from the kitchen.

‘Merry Christmas, Father!’

‘Winnie?’

‘I look that different?’

‘Well, yes. But . . .’

‘You should see Thomas, he’s a bronze god. He would step out an’ prove it, but he’s icin’ cakes for th’ Rotary tonight, an’ believe me, he does not like to be bothered when he’s icin’ cakes. He looks exactly like he did when we met in th’ ship’s galley—I was admirin’ his napoleons.’ She gave him the once-over. ‘You should use your gift certificate. They told me they gave you a gift certificate.’

‘Don’t start,’ he said.

‘Be careful whose hand you shake. Th’ Mitford Crud is goin’ around. People come in here sneezin’, coughin’, eyes waterin’ . . . Why don’t people stay home when they’re sick? People used to stay home out of respect for others. But that’s th’ trouble with people today, nobody has any respect for others. Lord knows, I’d like to get sick just so I could stay home for five minutes, but no way can I get sick ’til January. Have you heard about Vanita?’

‘What?’

‘Ended up in ER last night. Dehydrated. Mitford Crud, for sure. I think it’s that little microphone she carries around, all those people breathin’ in it.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘She’s fine, just down for a week or two, her husband said. He came in for three brownies. I said she probably shouldn’t have brownies right now; he said they were all for him, he was stressed.’

‘I’ll have two baguettes,’ he said.

‘What will you do with two?’

‘Winnie, Winnie, what would anybody do with two baguettes? We’ll have one this evening and use the other for crostini.’

‘They say people in France used to eat two baguettes every single day. Fourteen a week! Can you believe it? Now everybody’s down to half a baguette a day an’ th’ government’s worried.’

‘What are they worried about?’

‘Well, because not eatin’ baguettes is terrible for their cultural image.’

That would be his international news for the day.

•   •   •

‘HESSIE, COULD YOU POSSIBLY meet me at Happy Endings? I’m subbing for Hélène Pringle. Noon to one, if that would work. You won’t be disappointed.’

Noon to one could be busy with customers shopping on their lunch hour. Or the store could be empty as a gourd. The deepest truth he had learned about retail was that it’s all about surprise. Right up there with farming.

‘You want an apple?’ Hessie said. ‘I’ll bring you an apple.’

•   •   •

HE SAT WITH HER in the Poetry section and told her everything he was approved to tell. If she closed her mouth during the entire scenario, he didn’t see it. ‘And we’ll have all the facts for you this afternoon. In black-and-white.’

‘Lord help. And Vanita down with th’ flu. I hate to admit this is th’ chance I’ve waited for—an’ now I’m scared to death. Th’ turnaround . . .’

‘You can do it,’ he said.

‘I guess you’re wonderin’ if I’ve forgiven her.’

‘I haven’t actually wondered that, but since you mention it . . .’

‘She’s a terrier, that one, but let her have her bone. Let her ruin her back in those spike heels if that’s what she wants to do. I’ll take my Social Security check an’ fifteen bucks an hour, an’ same time next year I’ll be sittin’ on a bench in St. Augustine. But yes, I forgive her, bless ’er heart.’

‘Are you running this by J.C. before you write it?’

‘No way. I’m just goin’ to write it and hand it to him in person. It will never have contact with the Desk Dumpster.’

‘How soon can we see it?’

‘If I get your info by three and work half th’ night, I can have it to him in th’ mornin’. He’ll have to tear up his whole front page, but he’ll do it for this story. Definitely. He’ll still be able to get the paper out on Thursday, just later than usual. What about pictures?’

‘We’ll give them to you with the facts.’ His adrenaline was pumping like an oil derrick, and there came three customers through the door. ‘Hessie, Hessie, thanks a million. Isn’t life wonderful?’

‘Stressful,’ she snapped.

After selling four books and ordering two, he called Cynthia. ‘Did you get what we need?’

‘I think so. Maybe. I hope.’

‘Hessie would like to have it by three at the latest.’

‘I used your computer and will never do it again. Everything printed out triple-spaced, in red.’

‘Seasonal!’

She was not amused.

‘How old is your computer?’ she said.

‘Maybe ten years?’

‘Ugh. Is Hessie home?’

‘She was headed that way ten minutes ago.’

‘I’ll take it over after I mail the packages to New Jersey and Mississippi. We’re out of wrapping paper, and Truman threw up on the pool room carpet.’

‘So how’s everything else at your end?’

‘Stressful!’ she said.

•   •   •

THE FEEL GOOD WAS DECKED OUT.

A life-sized bobblehead Santa greeted him at the door. On the wall behind the cash register, action reindeer circled the globe, hauling a sleigh with Santa waving at incoming customers. Bing Crosby was cranked up pretty loud, or was it Elvis?

‘Merry Christmas, Padre,’ said Wanda, who was wearing a Santa hat and western boots. ‘New menu today.’

‘I liked the old one.’ Right there in one whining remark was living proof that he was old.

‘This menu is lite, Father. L-I-T-E. As in healthy. As in good for you.’

He slunk to their table, where Mule was in discussion with a server wearing a Santa hat.

‘It’s not calories I’m worried about,’ said Mule. ‘It’s cholesterol. My wife is watchin’ my cholesterol.’

‘We only know about calories,’ said the server. ‘We don’t have th’ expertise to advise people about cholesterol.’

‘Are you okay?’ he asked Mule.

‘Why?’

‘You’re pale.’

‘Fancy’s got me off about everything but air an’ water. Plus my tan ran out and I don’t have time to strip down and get a refresher, I’ve got to find Fancy a present. What are you givin’ Cynthia?’

‘A cat door.’

‘Is that supposed to be romantic?’

‘She thinks so.’

‘Fancy said give her somethin’ romantic.’

‘Like?’

‘She didn’t say, that’s th’ problem. What would I find in this town that’s romantic?’

‘Go online.’

‘I don’t go online. A cell phone is my limit when it comes to modern livin’. Help me out here.’

‘I’ll think about it. How’s the new menu?’

‘They took th’ barbecue off, if that tells you anything. Turkey this, turkey that. Turkey is eatin’ th’ lunch of th’ beef industry. I’m not goin’ for anything turkey.’

‘Have the vegetable plate.’

‘Too many choices with a vegetable plate. You order for me.’

‘Where’s J.C.?’

‘Out shoppin’ for Adele, last I heard. Did you know he got a tan?’

Shirlene had said he’d be surprised. ‘Living proof that hell has frozen over, or possibly that pigs do fly.’

‘Said it made him feel like when he got out of th’ Army and used to drive all night to Orlando.’

‘Aha.’

‘With th’ top down.’

‘So,’ he told Mule, ‘you’re having the collard greens, the baby limas, and the sweet potato soufflé with homemade cornbread. Bon appetit.’

‘Sweet potatoes give me gas.’

‘Okay, I’m done ordering for you; you’re on your own. Hey! Meat loaf.’

‘Made with turkey. Feel Good is obviously in th’ pocket of th’ turkey industry.’

‘Here’s chicken,’ he said, hopeful. ‘Grilled breast of chicken!’

Mule gave him a dark look. ‘Read th’ fine print. Made with turkey.’

Omer pulled out a chair and sat down, beaming. ‘So what’s new in town, y’all?’

Whoa! Look at this.

Omer Cunningham had either been spending a lot of time in the sun or . . . well, there you go.

•   •   •

HE OCCASIONALLY MISSED Henry in a way he hadn’t experienced with anyone else. It wasn’t the business that happened with twins, of course, yet there was some sense of—call it a connective tissue—that couldn’t be explained. His stem cells had traveled through Henry’s bloodstream and into the very bone cavities. Perhaps out of something so visceral had come this sense of connection. If nothing else, their father had given each of them a brother—and in their old age, when they knew how to appreciate the gesture, God had brought them together.

Dear Henry,

Am writing from the bookstore while listening to Grieg. I had dismissed him years ago, but was mistaken. I read that Lizst said to him as a struggling and physically handicapped musician, “Keep steadily on; I tell you, you have the capability and don’t let them intimidate you.”

I would say this to you, defining “them” in this case as the Enemy and his minions: Believe that you can be up and driving and living very much as you once did. It’s true that some transplants aren’t successful, but equally true that survival outcomes are improving by up to 80%. I realize that you know this, but realize, too, there are times when hope is dim. God is near, brother. I miss you and pray for you faithfully and also remind you of what Julian of Norwich said as she suffered a devastating illness of her own:

“All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” You may know that during her suffering she had gazed into the face of God, and out of that mighty encounter this truth was rendered for you, for all of us, for all time . . .

Over the years, he had found little occasion to sit with a lap full of Christmas cards and pay attention to what they were saying. Oh, he had scanned them, noting with gratitude those who had remembered him. But he had skipped the more attentive reading of the personal greeting, and the good humor or outright awkwardness of the photocopied Christmas letter. At the end of the season, he had taken the whole lot from the large Delft bowl on the console and, too busy again to do the promised read-through, tied the bundle with string and, yes, kept it in a box in the basement. An unthinkable habit purloined from Nanny Howard, who threw nothing away, nothing. He was rather pleased to have in his DNA this single, harmless hoarding affectation—it could be worse.

From Sligo came a report that for the first time in years, Liam and all his household, including William, would be dining with Evelyn and Paddy at Broughadoon for Christmas. From the study, he called this news to Cynthia, who was making her Everlasting Pimiento Cheese for forthcoming hordes.

From the Fieldwalkers in Whitecap, where he had supplied for a year, a fold-out card with a brief gazette.

‘Allelulia!’ he called in to Cynthia. ‘Morris Love is now St. John’s minister of music. Marjorie says, “Every pew is filled but for two seats on the gospel side which are reserved for all time for you and Cynthia. Come soon. Fish for breakfast!”’

‘And one from Otis and Marlene Bragg, signed “Bragg Paving Company for All Your Stone, Gravel, Asphalt and Concrete Needs.”’ Period. He was fond of the Braggs.

A handmade card with a line penned first by Christina Rossetti: ‘Love Came Down at Christmas.’

‘Agnes and Clarence send loving wishes for a happy Christmas season and good health for the new year, and ask that we come up for a visit in the spring.’

From Father Brad, a handsome card to be set on the mantel:

Comin’ atcha Jan. 1. He is born that we might have life. Pretty astounding. Looking forward to being with you and yours.

On he plowed, dredging time and memory, until the pimiento cheese was put away and the fire burned to embers and his wife went upstairs, followed by Truman. Violet had recently elected to watch through the night with Barnabas, a display of character which he found admirable in a cat.

A card from . . . Henry Talbot. Of all things:

Father, have ended up in New Mexico. Will try to stay in touch. Could you send me the prayer you mentioned when I was there? The one you prayed after you were ordained. Use this address until further notice. Pray for me. Yours, Henry

He put Henry’s card on his desk and the other cards in the bowl on the console, then turned off the lights and made his way up to bed.

•   •   •

ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, Esther Cunningham was reclining in the chair pirated by her grandson, the police chief, from the furnace room. ‘I had to call in th’ cops to get my chair back,’ she told anyone who would listen.

‘Ray!’

‘What is it, Honey Bun?’

Why was her husband lookin’ old? She had not previously noticed this. After all these years, she still saw him as the boy at the picnic who brought fried chicken and coleslaw which he made himself, though he was clearly no sissy. She had eaten three pieces of his chicken, crispier than she’d ever tasted, and married him two months later—they were both nineteen.

‘Didn’t th’ Muse come today? Is this Thursday or am I in a coma and lost track of time?’

‘It’s here somewhere,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t had a minute to pick it up.’

‘How come you hadn’t had a minute?’ She endured an extended coughing fit. ‘What were you doin’ all day?’

‘Lookin’ after you, Sugar Babe.’ He poured a spoonful of cough syrup, put it to her lips. ‘Down th’ hatch.’

‘What was there to look after? I had toast and a boiled egg for breakfast, Marcie brought a salad for lunch and decorated th’ tree, and we’ve got th’ Crockpot goin’ for supper.’ She could not understand people who thought themselves overworked.

‘Right,’ he said, thumping into his own recliner. ‘You needed stamps from th’ post office, said it was life or death. You wanted your green dress dry-cleaned for Christmas, so I ran that over to Wesley. I was on th’ phone about th’ hospital bill, they charged you for a urinary diversion which was twenty-four thousand an’ I called to say they had not touched anything urinary, and they checked and took it off th’ bill, which Medicare should truly appreciate. Then th’ laundry—all th’ beds needed changin’ you said, since th’ girls have been sleepin’ over, so I washed and folded stuff like you told me to, and filled your medicine box an’ called your sister in Dallas an’ gave her an update an’ invited Omer an’ his new girlfriend to dinner since we’re havin’ his favorite. Then I set th’ table an’ laid th’ phone off th’ hook so you could take a nap.’ Ray gave forth a shuddering sigh.

‘Who’s his girlfriend?’

‘Fancy Skinner’s sister, Shirlene.’

‘Lord help, I hope we won’t be gettin’ Fancy Skinner in this family.’

‘Shirlene’s a nice girl. When you get better, she’ll give you a tan. Her treat, she said.’

‘That tan where you strip down to your birthday suit? I’ll get my own tan, thank you. Is th’ phone still off th’ hook?’

‘It is. An’ thank God in his mercy.’

‘I was wonderin’ why nobody called.’ She had figured people didn’t care whether she lived or died.

‘Then because th’ school bus was in th’ shop an’ Marcie had a meetin’, she asked me to pick up her grans at school.’

‘Lord help!’ she said, aghast. ‘All her grans?’ She could not believe the wrinkles in his forehead.

‘All of ’em that was in school.’ As they climbed in the van, he’d done a head count—twelve, or was it eleven?—to be dropped off at a total of four different houses. To be absolutely sure, he asked them to count their own heads. Yellow house, Bitsy, Donna, and Albert; white house, green shutters, Sissy and Sassy; green house, white shutters, Buster, Harry, Susan, Paula, and Robbie; brick house, Jerry and Rosalind. And that was just Marcie’s crowd. There were a dozen more distributed among their other four daughters, and nobody in the family was Catholic.

‘Only one got off at the wrong house,’ he said. The whole lot of them were famous for getting off at each other’s houses and drivin’ their mothers crazy. ‘It’s been a handful, Doll Face.’

This was a shock. The girls had certainly had their say about her wearin’ their daddy out, an’ now they were wearin’ him out, sendin’ him on a pick-up-and-deliver as if he had nothin’ else to do.

She watched as he laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. Before he could hit the recline mode, his mouth dropped open and he was snoring to beat the band, bless his heart. She would have to do somethin’ nice for him when she got stronger. Maybe she would buy a new nightgown, Lord knows they weren’t dead yet, or take him up to Lucera, which would cost out th’ kazoo, and maybe they should even have wine—bein’ Baptist, they never had wine except for a communion or two at Lord’s Chapel, didn’t Jesus have wine?

In the meantime, she would climb out of this chair and round up her own dadblame newspaper.

She hobbled to the kitchen, where she found it on the counter with the mail, then she hobbled back to her chair and coughed a good bit and read the headline that ran clean across the front page.

‘Ray!’ she said.

He sat up and blinked. ‘What is it, Honey Pie?’

‘Go put th’ bloomin’ phone on th’ hook and come listen to this.’

•   •   •

‘HAVE YOU SEEN IT?’ Esther Bolick held up today’s Muse so Winnie could see it over the bake case.

‘I read every word. Everybody’s talkin’ about it.’

‘Have you ever?’

‘Never!’ said Winnie. ‘Three million dollars! I can’t get my feeble mind around that kind of money. So nice that th’ movie star twin bought her sister’s paintings for one and a half million, can you believe it? An’ every dime to go to th’ Children’s Hospital! Then our own Miz McGraw turns around an’ gives a million an’ a half to match it.’

‘They’ll be needin’ a lot of cakes for that big auction next spring. It’s black-tie, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Winnie. ‘An’ how about them not havin’ a clue all those years that they were twins? That is so sad.’

‘I would say if they get th’ two hundred people they’re lookin’ for, they’ll need five fourteen-inch OMCs, sliced event-style.’

What had happened to Esther’s bad knees? Was it a miracle healing? Never again would she, Winnie Ivey Kendall, sign an agreement of any kind. Not in this life.

‘I think their names are really pretty,’ said Winnie. ‘Irene Elizabeth and Kimberly Frances.’

‘That auction will be big-time,’ said Esther. ‘You should do three-layers. An’ believe me, you’ll need help to get that job done.’ Esther was standing on tiptoe, eyeing her across the case.

‘I’ve never seen one of Kim’s movies, but Thomas is goin’ to get ’em on Netflix.’ Her dentist had told her not to grind her teeth and here she was grinding her teeth. ‘I don’t have any idea they’ll come to me, anyway. There are other bakers in this world, Esther. They might even get a caterer from Charlotte.’

‘Charlotte? That’ll be a million and a half out of th’ budget right there!’

She could not do this another minute. ‘Besides, formal affairs these days go for a chocolate dessert every time. That . . . is statistical.’ So saying, she marched back to the kitchen.

Esther fumbled in her pocketbook for the car keys. ‘Chocolate!’ she muttered. ‘An’ when th’ party’s over, there’s everybody wonderin’ why they can’t sleep, an’ blamin’ it on too much wine!’

•   •   •

‘IT WAS A REALLY GOOD STORY,’ Minnie Lomax told Hessie. They sat in the front window of the Woolen Shop, drinking hot cider schlepped from Village Shoes.

Minnie was fond of encouraging Hessie, who had no husband, no money to speak of, and was forced to work for peanuts for J. C. Hogan, who had never once made a purchase in this shop.

‘I liked your headline—“Twin Gifts Kick Off Children’s Hospital Campaign.”’

‘Well, thanks,’ said Hessie. ‘There was so dern much to that story, I didn’t know where to start. I’m still in recovery.’

‘I thought it was great that the movie star twin will make an appearance at the auction. That is really, really nice of her to come such a long way for children she doesn’t even know. An’ then Miz McGraw givin’ that matching gift in memory of her poor dead husband—he used to buy all his woolen items from us. He played golf in Scotland, but bought all his woolen items from us. Wasn’t that wonderful?’

Minnie wished Hessie would listen more carefully when she talked, but Hessie’s mind was usually elsewhere.

‘Way too many details to that story,’ said Hessie. ‘It half killed me. That’s th’ last big news this town needs for a long time, I can tell you that.’

•   •   •

‘I HAVE SOME GOOD NEWS and some bad news,’ said Puny, hands behind her back.

‘But first, congratulations on all that money for Children’s Hospital, I know you must have prayed up a storm. An’ I’m so happy for Ms. McGraw that she has a twin, she deserves it! Sissy an’ Sassy drew straws on which one of them would end up rich an’ famous an’ Sissy won. I tried to tell ’em they could both be rich an’ famous, but . . .’

‘Bad news first,’ he said, weary in every bone, ‘and get it over with.’

He had dragged himself out of bed this morning. Retail was definitely worse than priesting. It was Christmas Eve, and because his work schedule of Thursday, Friday, and Saturday was now ended, he had pitched in with Hélène and Coot for Christmas Eve, aka the last fling of his second career.

‘Th’ water heater’s leakin,’ it’s runnin’ out on th’ basement floor.’

Their second water heater in four years. Where had American quality and ingenuity gone? What was the matter with people?

‘I’ll call th’ plumber,’ she said.

‘Thank you. Is that the good news, that you’ll call the plumber and I don’t have to?’

‘Th’ good news is behind my back. Three guesses.’

‘Puny, Puny. You know I don’t like guessing.’

She handed over an envelope, grinning.

His letter to Cynthia? Yes! The lost letter was found!

He whooped.

‘Where?’

‘You know th’ place under your desk where th’ drawers are at? It has those little feet that set it up off th’ floor a inch or two—I found it under there. When I was dustin’ your desk, I dropped one of your pens and that’s where it rolled an’ I reached in there an’ . . . Merry Christmas!’

She was beaming.

‘Don’t tell Cynthia,’ he said.

•   •   •

HE WALKED OUT TO THE STOOP, the phone to his ear, and looked up. A snow sky. Big time.

‘Sam! Good morning. Walk up to the bookstore with me.’

‘I ain’t got no clothes on.’

‘Get ’em on,’ he said. ‘Paying job.’

Sammy could work ’til noon—bring in lunch, take the truck to have Lew check the ignition, and help Coot sort the recycling. He was scratching around for something for Sammy to do, as the cat door was finished and, as much for Truman as for Cynthia, covered by a hand-lettered sign: DO NOT OPEN TIL CHRISTMAS.

Kenny had been working on his kid brother; Harley had done his part, and Miss Pringle’s terms and conditions hadn’t hurt. Hair combed. Hands clean. A good-looking boy. He was grateful for the simple happiness of walking up the street with Sammy.

‘Buck’s goin’ to take me to work with ’im next week.’

‘Great.’

‘He said he might find a job for me.’

‘That should be pretty easy to do. You’re a good carpenter, you can paint, and if they need any help with landscaping . . .’

As they rounded the corner onto Main, he saw a familiar figure walking their way.

‘Father Tim! Merry Christmas! Joe Jordan, remember me? I was on th’ vestry back in the day. We moved down th’ mountain and I’m up to see my cousin. This your boy?’

This isn’t Dooley, he was about to say, but hesitated.

He put his hand on Sammy’s shoulder. Sammy didn’t flinch.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This is my boy. His name is Sammy.’

•   •   •

BEFORE HE OPENED THE STORE, they took a turn into Village Shoes.

‘Happy Hanukkah, my friend.’

‘Merry Christmas, Father!’

They embraced, each giving the other a rousing back slap.

‘Shoes for Sammy while I open up, and I’ll be back for brown loafers and a pair of black dress shoes. Ten and a half B.’

‘Will do, and mazel tov. Sweet deal for the Children’s Hospital.’

He paused outside the shoe store and looked up. A flake touched his cheek; one landed on his glove. It was snowing.

•   •   •

‘ONCE IN ROYAL DAVID’S CITY,’ ‘In the Deep Mid-Winter’ . . . a CD of his most-loved Christmas music . . .

Sugar, fake cream, napkins, and the sign turned around to OPEN . . .

It was his favorite part of the day. He would miss it.

He was shelving new inventory near the front when he heard the bell and looked up.

Good Lord. Edith Mallory. Pushed in her wheelchair by Ed Coffey.

He paused briefly with his mouth agape and went to them at once.

‘Edith!’ He felt an overwhelming flood of affection; stooped and embraced her. ‘Edith.’

‘Fa . . . ther.’

Snow mingled in the fur of her coat collar . . .

He took her gloved hand, not speaking. They had been through a great deal together. She had wooed him, once locked him in a room with herself, and pursued him unashamedly. And then, the catastrophic blow to her head and the loss of ability to form words and speech.

Edith’s longtime driver had aged noticeably, but who hadn’t? He embraced Ed, a spontaneous act that could never have happened in years past.

And here was his chance.

It had come to him; he had not been forced to seek it. But he knew he couldn’t do it. Not at all. All those years with everyone hounding her for money; a never-ending procession of people to her door, hands out. He would not, could not do it. How would he tell the Children’s Hospital board that she had dropped by to see him but he could not do it?

‘We wanted to get up here before th’ snow sets in,’ said Ed. ‘Miz Mallory’s been missin’ th’ place. She’s taken a house on th’ ridge for a few days.’

‘We’re glad to have you, Edith. Welcome home. Merry Christmas.’ His heart was painfully full.

Edith handed him an envelope inscribed with his name, gave him something that resembled a smile.

He opened the envelope. A folding card, handwritten by Edith’s assistant, with a check tucked inside:

Father,

You have given when no one asked. I have given only when pressed. This is a new avenue for me, one I hope to travel until the end. I hear your favorite charity is in dire straits. May God bless you to a happy old age. Pray for me. Edith

He was touched by this; thought it could appear crass or impatient to look at the check now.

Ed Coffey cleared his throat.

He got Ed’s message, studied the amount, blinked. This time, he might actually faint.

To: Children’s Hospital.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

Edith spoke slowly and with precision the words she was first able to articulate after the disastrous head injury.

‘God . . . is . . . good.’

The three of them held hands and wept together, a kind of family once bitterly estranged, now united.

•   •   •

PEOPLE ROAMING THE STORE, several youngsters in the Children’s section, the bell jangling.

‘Hey, Dad!’

Dooley striding in—a surprise visit on his way to Meadowgate.

‘Wanted to stop by and say we’ll see you out there tomorrow. From Lace and me.’

Dooley brushed snow from his hair, handed over a bag filled with wrapped gifts. A first, this bag of gifts—with the imprimatur of the girl Dooley loved. So many firsts, all the time . . .

‘I have somethin’ else for you. It’s the most important.’

Dooley pulled a twenty from his jeans pocket, and folded it. Then he folded it again. And again. And once more. And handed it over, solemn.

‘Merry Christmas, Dad. Thanks for all you do for me.’

Dooley gave him a quick hug and was gone before he could speak.

•   •   •

‘EXCUSE ME.’

A smartly dressed woman he had never seen approached the sales counter. ‘That plant in your window. What is it, may I ask?’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘A rubber plant. After a fashion.’

‘I’m opening my house for Christmas and need something tall and green in my foyer. Where did you get it?’

‘It was a gift.’

‘Does it require much water?’

‘Not much.’

‘Must it have light? My foyer is dark.’

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it is completely maintenance-free.’

He carried it across the street to her SUV, and came back and totted up the take to date.